


There are Some who Survive

by SuchStuffAsDreamsAreMadeOn



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: AU, Alcohol, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood, Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Concussions, Drunk!Anya, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I tried to keep the mentions of sexual assault pretty brief, Mentions of past sexual assult/rape, Sexual Assault, Sharing a Bed, Swearing, but they might still be triggering to some
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 21:18:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17588606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuchStuffAsDreamsAreMadeOn/pseuds/SuchStuffAsDreamsAreMadeOn
Summary: "The bottle of vodka was full, pushed to the back of the cabinet, as if someone had forgotten about it.  Or wanted to forget about it.  After struggling for a moment to get the top off, Anya crossed to the counter and held her hand above the kitchen sink.  Her breath hissed through her teeth as the vodka found its way into the cuts on her knuckles.  Raising the bottle to her lips, Anya allowed the warmth of the alcohol to momentary push back the pain."Anya is attacked on the streets of Petersburg and runs to the one place she thinks she'll be safe.  When Gleb hears what happened he knows he needs to find her.  He doesn't expect to find her quite so drunk.





	There are Some who Survive

**Author's Note:**

> "There are some who survive  
> Some who don't  
> Some give up, some give in  
> Me, I won't  
> Black and blue, welcome to  
> My Petersburg"
> 
> \---
> 
> While there is a scene of sexual assault and mentions to possible past assault in this work I did my best to keep them brief and respectful. However, some may still find them triggering, so please know that going in. 
> 
> Please feel free to reach out to me if you need to talk, but I also encourage you to seek out professional help if you feel you need it.
> 
> Additionally, I do not endorse drinking as a coping mechanism, especially if you might have a concussion.

Snow crunched under Anya’s boots as she turned down the alley leading to the Department of Public Works. It was early still, but with the winter wind blowing fiercely through the streets of Leningrad and the temperature dipping into the almost frighteningly cold, the sun had already begun to set. She pulled her coat tighter against her body and clutched her broom with numb fingers.

The sun disappeared behind the apartment building to Anya’s left and cast the alley in shadow. It was her normal rout, nothing out of the ordinary except that the air was a little colder and the snow a little dirtier. Anya buried her nose into her collar and didn’t look up as she past the darkened doorways. 

The day had been long, reduced down to the cobblestones beneath her broom and the biting cold against her cheeks, until she couldn’t feel her cheeks at all. For a while she had found herself looking up every few minutes, eyes searching - though she tried not to admit it to herself - for a tall figure with a Red Army uniform and a mess of dark hair. As the hours wore on, however, it became clear that his duties had not led him into the streets of Leningrad today. Given the cold, she could not blame him. Her ears had long since frozen, despite her long hair covering them, which might have been why she didn’t hear the squeak of footsteps behind her until they were right on top of her. 

Two sets of hands grabbed her, spinning her around and then flinging her against the side of one of the buildings. Her back hit the wall, knocking the breath out of her, and pain bloomed as her head slammed back into the rough brick. Gasping for air, blinking away the spots of darkness that threatened to overtake her vision, it took Anya a moment to focus on the two young men in front of her.

They were poorly dressed, given the cold, although Anya couldn’t claim her coat was any less tattered than theirs. The taller man, wavy hair sticking out from beneath his cap, stalked towards her as the stockier man hung back, eyes flitting from side to side, keeping watch. 

“Aren’t you going to scream little mouse?” The man flashed his teeth at her and suddenly Anya did feel a bit like a mouse, cornered in the snow by a grinning fox, hungry for more than food. “It won’t matter if you scream. Even if someone hears you no one will come. Not for a nobody like you.”

The man probably would have continued talking if Anya’s broom handle hadn’t connected forcefully with the side of his head. The man staggered back with a string of curses, clutching at his temple. When he lowered it, his hand came away red. 

“Not a mouse, then,” the man growled. “A bitch.”

The back of his hand connected with Anya’s cheek before she could react and her head snapped to the side as the taste of blood filled her mouth. The man wore no gloves to soften the blow. 

“That’s for the broom, bitch,” He raised his hand again. “And this is to keep you still.” 

Anya was at him before his hand could fall a second time. The snow under her boots made her footing slow and slick, but her attacker was fairing no better and she was lighter and quicker than he. Ignoring the hits her attacker was landing, Anya clawed and kicked and punched, with a fierceness and desperation learned from remembering nothing before a life of loneliness, walking from place to place, with no one to watch her back, and a host of experiences teaching her what it would mean if she were to lose a fight. 

Her broom connected with a solid _thwack_ and the man doubled over, clutching his ribs. Pressing her advantage, Anya moved to strike him again, but before she could the broom was ripped from her hand. In the moment, she had forgotten about the second boy who hand hung back, keeping watch. He had her wrists in his hands in an instant, pinning them to her own body with a bear hug from behind that rendered her just as helpless as any straitjacket would. No matter how much she struggled, twisting and turning in his grip, Anya could not overcome the second man’s size and strength.

Spitting blood, bright red in the off-white snow, her first attacker advanced towards her as the second held her impassively still. “You’ll pay for that, bitch.” There was more red at the corner of the man’s mouth. Anya wondered distantly if she had managed to crack a rib. “It would have been fast before. Now I’m going to make you scream. Hold her Anton.”

Anya could feel Anton’s deep laugh reverberate from his chest into her back.

“It seems you need a lesson in manners, Princess,” he chuckled. 

The Russian cold had been seeping into her bones all day, but this was nothing compared to the freezing sensation Anya felt now. She couldn’t move, could hardly feel her body at all. The man’s words echoed around her mind.

_Princess._

_You must mind your manners, Princess._

There was chocolate on her gloves. Her white opera gloves. 

A woman scolded her, a soldier shot at her.

_Behave yourself, Anastasia, or Mama will be upset._

Mama would be dead.

There would be bullets and bayonets and blood and Mama would fall down with a prayer on her lips and a hole in her head. Just like Papa. Just like the rest of her family. Just like her.

Distantly Anya could feel a tugging sensation as her coat was pulled down her arms. The cold that should have followed seemed kept at bay by the memories swirling behind her eyes and her mind’s desperate attempts to protect herself from what was happening, what these men were doing to her.

She knew what they would do. There had been others - single men on deserted roads, drunk ones in pubs, and on one occasion a man she’d actually thought she could trust. She had learned her lesson quickly after that. Some days it was a word or a touch, others she had been grabbed ‘round the waist or pinned against a wall and it was only her flying fists that stopped things before her clothing - and maybe after, her body - were thrown by the roadside. Once, when the Rubles had run out and when the Russian winter had made sleeping outside a death sentence, she had bought herself a bed with hands in the dark and exposed skin. Afterwards, she had tried to ignore her own tears as she listened to the snores beside her. In the morning, she had scrubbed and scrubbed, but even the frigid snow melt couldn’t erase the fingerprints.

Now she was helpless in Anton’s paralyzing embrace. She could feel the first man begin plucking at the buttons of her blouse, exposing the rabid rise and fall of her breasts as her breath came in short, panicked gasps. When rough fingers dragged harshly along her bared skin a whimper escaped Anya and she would have crumpled to the snowy ground had Anton not been holding her so tightly.

“I told you I’d make you scream, little bitch.” 

The sensation of a hand under her skirts, pulling the band of her undergarments down from her waist, fingers raking over the naked skin revealed at the base of her belly, trailing down to the hollow beside her hip bone, then down until... 

Anya let out a scream. Throwing her weight back into Anton, she slammed both feet into the other man’s chest, sending him staggering back. The inside of her right heel smashed down onto Anton’s boot, but he hadn’t even had time to curse her before the back of her head connected with his chin. Anya didn’t leave herself time to register the pain. As soon as Anton’s grip on her released she was at the other man, her fist connecting with his face over and over again. His face and her hand turned red, but she didn’t stop until she heard the shouting. It came not from Anton or the other man, but from the end of the alley, where three uniformed officers were running towards them.

Maybe Anya couldn’t remember much of her past, and maybe she did know a man in a Red Army uniform with dark, kind eyes who no longer frightened her, but in that moment, all she could see were men with guns, a pillowcase stained with tears, and a basement floor steeped in blood.

She ran.

She didn’t think about her coat and broom, left strewn in the snow. She didn’t think about the cold or the pounding in her head or that running from the Cheka would most likely make her a criminal. In fact, she didn’t think about much as her feet carried her through the streets of Leningrad, away from the men and the officers, away from her apartment, and towards the one place she thought she might be able to feel safe. 

 

********

 

Gleb scribbled his name on the line at the bottom of the form and placed it in the outgoing box for one of the secretaries to pick up in the morning. Sighing, his eyes found the small clock on the wall. It was well past his time to go home, but he’d had papers to file and little reason to hurry home. His apartment would be cold and dark when he got there. 

He had just stood and slipped the last paper into his briefcase, intending to take a few tasks home with him, when there was a knock on his door. At his word three officers entered the room, bringing with them two scrappy young men. They were poor, that much was clear, and Gleb could sense that they were the kind of trouble makers the Bolshevik cause was meant to have eliminated. Gleb straightened, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Comrade,” one of the officers began, “apologies for the interruption. You are the most senior officer here this late, sir.”

Gleb nodded. “What happened?”

There had been a fight, that much was clear. The stockier man had a split lip and limped slightly, but it was the taller man who showed the most signs. He kept one arm pressed to his side and had bruising along the left side of his face, a blackened eye, and a nose that was clearly broken.

“Found these two attacking a girl, sir. Or being attacked by one is more like,” the same officer answered. “She ran before we could bring her in for questioning.” 

Gleb nodded again. “Self-defense?” he asked.

“From what we saw it seemed that way, yes sir.”

His eyes focused again on the two men in front of him. “Did you attack this girl, Comrades?”

The stockier man let out a snort. “We sure tried, _Comrade_.” Gleb tried not to let his annoyance show at the mocking use of the moniker. “But the little bitch had claws. Doesn’t mean we didn’t have some fun first.”

Clenching his jaw at the man’s words Gleb ran a hand over his face, weary already from the day and what still needed to be done. “Very well, Comrades, you have confessed to-” his words were cut off as his eyes fell on the items in the second guard’s hands. 

The coat was crumpled and warn, the broom nondescript, save for the spots of blood he could see on the handle, but together they painted a picture Gleb recognized - a picture of golden brown hair and blue eyes and a smile that, though he saw it seldom, made his heart flip in his chest. 

“Where did you get those?” His voice was icy calm.

The younger guard glanced down at the possessions in surprise. “These, Comrade? They were found in the alley. They belonged to the girl these two attacked.” Gleb could feel himself balk at the words.

It might not be her, Gleb reminded himself. Hers were not the only broom and thrice-patched coat in the city.

“This girl,” Gleb snapped, stepping out from behind his desk and towards the stocky man who had spoken, “describe her.”

The smile on the man’s face made Gleb sick. “Small, pretty face. Brown hair braided over her head. Blue eyes.” The man must have noticed how Gleb’s fists balled at his side. “What’s the matter, Comrade, wish you had been there? She had nice tits, too, and she cried when I got under her skirts-”

Gleb had the man up against the wall before he was fully conscious of what he was doing. Grasping the front of the man’s bloodied shirt, Gleb pushed his forearm into the man’s throat, desperate to cut off his words. 

There was silence in the room, except for the soft choking sounds as the stocky man struggled to breathe. Gleb knew his comrades would do nothing to stop him if he decided to kill this man. Every instinct in him was telling to, but there were two of them, both more than deserving of punishment, and Gleb found he suddenly did not have that time. Instead he released the man and retreated to his desk, fuming as he pulled a form out of a drawer.

The words on the page hardly focused as he filled in the appropriate information. Date, accusation, description of offense - here Gleb's handwriting became all but illegible - suggested date and time of execution. Signature of authorized party-member. 

Here his hand stopped, pen hovering over the paper. A drop of ink dripped onto the page. Then another.

Date and time of execution.

It had been Anya. He was sure of it. These men had found her, had scared her, had-

These men deserved to die. Part of Gleb wanted them to die. Any yet he couldn’t sign his name. Anya wouldn’t want him to, wouldn’t want these men’s lives on his conscience. And, as much as he wanted to bash their heads repeatedly on the corner of his desk, Gleb didn’t want these men’s lives on his conscience, either. He knew well enough what that guilt felt like.

With a growl Gleb crumpled the paper in his fist, tossing it aside before grabbing a second paper from his desk. He filled this one in without hesitation, his handwriting quick, barely controlled loops, then shoved the form at one of the guards.

“I want them in Siberia by morning.”

Without another word, he grabbed his coat and briefcase and strode out the door.

******** 

The lock gave with a satisfying click and Anya slid the hairpin back into her hair. With quick motions she slipped through the door, closing it behind her, before turning to press her back against the wood frame and look around the small space.

The room was almost dark, the last rays of sunset were filtering through the window, illuminating a small kitchen squeezed into the corner to her left. Just beyond that was a table - scrubbed and bare - with three straight backed chairs pushed neatly in beside it. To her right was a door - leading to a closet, she could only assume - and a china cabinet. This was the only decorative object in the room and contained only a few pieces of china, in addition to several books, a set of shot glasses, and a woman’s necklace nestled in an open case. Tilting her head Anya could see that behind the cabinet was a small stove with the last of the kitchen table’s chairs pulled around it. Opposite her a flight of stairs led, Anya imagined, to a bedroom.

This was the whole of the apartment. Anya took it in for a moment. She’d never been there before and she wasn’t entirely sure if the space was what she had expected. Eventually the pain in her hand and throbbing in her head forced her to move. When she pushed away from the wall she found her legs weak beneath her. The adrenaline had worn off and the shock was beginning to set in, but she forced herself forward, ignoring the way her knees all but gave out. 

It wouldn’t help to think about it, she reminded herself. It wouldn’t do to dwell on what had almost happened - on what _had_ happened. She could feel her breath hitch at the thought but she fought back the panic as it rose in her throat. 

She stumbled on her shaking legs and caught herself on one of the kitchen chairs. Her vision swam, but when it came back into focus Anya could see her hand, gripping the back of the chair, knuckles white beneath the blood. Much of the blood wasn’t hers, but a fair bit of it was. Anya wasn’t sure which was worse.

_First things first,_ Anya urged herself. _One thing at a time._

Swaying, Anya made her way to the kitchen and began opening drawers and cupboards. She found a clean rag, which she was able to rip into strips, then went in search of some soap before finding something better.

The bottle of vodka was full, pushed to the back of the cabinet, as if someone had forgotten about it. Or wanted to forget about it. After struggling for a moment to get the top off, Anya crossed to the counter and held her hand above the kitchen sink. Her breath hissed through her teeth as the vodka found its way into the cuts on her knuckles. Raising the bottle to her lips, Anya allowed the warmth of the alcohol to momentary push back the pain. She clenched her jaw and allowed the liquid to pour over her hand once again, mixing with the blood as it pooled in the drain. 

When she could see her skin again she shook away the lingering drops and wrapped her hand with the cloth she had found. It was difficult, wrapping her own right hand using only her left, but she managed to messily tie off the fabric using her teeth. She took another swig of vodka as a reward. 

She hadn’t turned on the light and the room was growing dark quickly. She hadn’t turned on the heat, either, and without a coat her body was having trouble fighting the cold. Glancing down, Anya realized with a vague detachment that the buttons of her blouse were still undone. No wonder she was cold. The skin of her breasts was pale against the white of her shirt. 

Placing the bottle back on the counter Anya lifted her hands to the gaping fabric and found her fingers shaking. She fumbled with the buttons, willing her hands to still, her thought to stay focused, not to stray to the men in the alley, their fingers on her breasts, their breath on her neck, their hands under her skirt-

“Fuck!”

Anya shouted the curse, dropping her hands and breathing hard. Panic welled inside her and she fought it back, breath shuddering in her chest as she willed herself to stay calm, stay in the present.

Pushing away the urge to scream again, to tear off her spoiled clothing and scrub her skin until the men’s touches, or her skin itself, came off, Anya grabbed the vodka bottle once again. 

*******

She hadn’t been in any of her regular places - not under the bridge by the Niva, not in the square in front of the Winter Palace, not in the one room flat she shared with five other street sweepers, one of whom had simpered and smiled and pouted so much when she answered the door to Gleb only to find him looking for Anya that Gleb was quietly convinced street sweeping was only her day job.

He had traipsed up and down the streets of Leningrad, growing increasingly desperate by the step, until finally the cold and the dark and the knowledge that Anya clearly did not want to be found drove him home to his own apartment. 

The key was in the lock before Gleb even noticed - distracted as he was - that the door was unlocked. He found the lightswitch with a tentative hand, the soft glow of the low-powered bulbs spilled into his kitchen. It took his eyes a moment to find her, sitting in the shadows against the back wall near the stove, knees pulled up to her chest. 

Gleb closed the door softly behind him before turning back to his visitor.

“You’re late.” Her voice was firm, almost accusatory, but in a mocking, sarcastic way that felt, despite everything, like a joke. Gleb could tell that something was wrong.

“Anya?” 

She responded with, of all things, a giggle. “Did I surprise you, Gleb?”

That was one word for it.

Bracing one hand against the wall, Anya pushed herself to her feet, swaying slightly. When she bent down again to grab something, Gleb instantly saw why. The bottle of vodka Anya held in her hand was half empty, and, given that Gleb recognized it as the one he kept under his skink for emergencies, he knew it had started full. Then again, Gleb reasoned, it was probably fair to call this an emergency. 

Anya’s face fell into a pout. “You don’t seem very happy to see me.” Gleb wasn’t sure he could find words for the emotions swirling through him - relief, anger, fear, confusion, concern - so he kept silent. With slight unsteadiness in her walk, Anya stepped towards him, moving from the shadows into the light of the bulb hanging over the kitchen table. 

Gleb couldn’t help his sharp intake of breath. Bruises were beginning to color one side of Anya’s face in deep blues and purples. She had a cut along once cheek and held herself stiffly, as if too much movement was painful. But it was her blouse, unbuttoned and muddied, and the swell of exposed skin beneath, that made Gleb see red. In that moment, he was sorry he hadn’t signed the bastards’ execution papers after all. 

“Anya.” Her name slipped past his lips on an exhale, hardly a whisper. Without thinking he reached out for her, wanting to comfort her, wanting to take away the pain he found in her eyes. She flinched away from his touch and Gleb’s heart shattered. For a moment her eyes darkened, focusing on him in a way they hadn’t yet that evening. The intensity and fear in them held his for a moment, then her eyes glassed over again and slipped passed his gaze, back down to the bottle in her hand. She took another drink.

When her eyes met his again he could see that she knew how bad it was - how bad it had almost been. Rage boiled under his skin, but this time, Gleb realized, the rage was directed inward, at himself, at his helplessness, at his inability to keep Anya safe. She must have seen his pain because she held the vodka out to him. When he pressed his lips to the mouth of the bottle his own hands were shaking.

Anya smiled when he brought the bottle back down. “Feel better?” she asked, the pain gone from her eyes. “It’ll keep you warm on cold Russian nights.” Her voice faltered at the end and Gleb wondered if her mind had slipped to what else could keep a person warm through the night. 

Gleb ran a trembling hand over his face, trying to hid his broken expression from Anya and to regain some composure. Anger and horror were not what Anya needed in this moment. She had come to him for help. Her words, about the cold Russian nights, brought an awareness to Gleb, and the realization shook movement back into him. “You didn’t turn the heat on. It’s freezing in here.” He crossed to the small heater, cranking the knob.

“‘M not cold,” Anya pouted quietly. Gleb ignored her, knowing it was the alcohol talking.

“And why were you sitting in the dark? You could have turned the light on.”

Anya shrugged. “Didn’t want the neighbors to know I was here.” She gave a small giggle. “Can’t have them knowing the Red Army General has a girl spending the night in his room. What would Lennon think?” Another giggle followed this.

Gleb sighed, but couldn’t help the corners of his mouth tugging up at Anya’s slightly slurred laughter, or at the thought of Anya being concerned with his reputation, or, for that matter, at the idea of Anya wanting to spend the night in his room. Still, practical matters quickly chased away these thoughts, the sight of Anya’s shaking fingers and slightly blue-tinged lips causing a fresh wave of worry to roll through his chest. 

Quickly Gleb slipped out of his coat, stepping towards Anya and gently placing it around her shoulders. He grazed her arm as he did so and he could feel her shudder beneath his touch. “Your coat and broom are in my office. We can fetch them tomorrow.” 

He stepped in front of her, facing her. Without thinking Gleb reached out, fingers finding the unfastened buttons of her blouse, wanting to erase all signs of what had happened to her in the snowy streets of Leningrad. 

With a soft, strangled cry Anya flinched away from his touch, her breath catching in her chest, her hand flying up to clutch his wrist. Her grip was tight, panic pulsing off her in waves, but her eyes wouldn’t meet his, wide and glazed over, lost as she was in the memories of the last men who had touched her. 

“Anya,” Gleb kept perfectly still, voice gentle, coaxing. “Anya, look at me.”

The exposed skin of her breasts rose and fell with her shuddering breath as Anya forced her eyes to meet Gleb’s. 

“It’s alright,” he murmured and his steady gaze met her panicked one. “It’s me”

There was another beat of stillness. Gleb could feel the tips of Anya’s fingers trembling against the skin on the inside of his wrist and could hear how she forced her breathing to slow from its almost frantic pace. Then, with the smallest of nods, she released his hand, dropping her arm back to her side. 

With slow, measured movements, Gleb’s fingers returned the buttons of Anya’s blouse, his fingers struggling to re-thread each dainty, if worn, clasp through its respective hole. When he’d finished he dropped his hands, his eyes finding Anya’s again, which had stayed trained on his face the whole time.

He wanted to say something, to ease her fear, to tell her she wasn’t alone, but he had only gotten out a murmured “Anya” before she cut him off.

“Gleb, I just want to drink.” 

He paused, knowing from experience that alcohol was never the best coping mechanism. But this was Anya, the frightened street sweeper he’d found on the streets of Leningrad who’d pushed her way into his heart over cups of tea and quiet conversations in his office when she’d been brave or desperate enough to make her way through the halls of the Bolshevik government. This was _his_ Anya, who spoke in hushed tones of memories she feared and longed to remember, whose darkened eyes often told of sleepless nights and nightmares, who deserved some good just once in this rotten hand life had dealt her and who stood in front of him instead, bruises on her face and the ghosts of fingertips roaming her body, asking for one thing to make the pain go away. How could he tell her no? 

Gleb took the bottle from Anya’s hand, taking another swig of the warm liquor, before returning it to Anya with a nod. 

*******

They passed the bottle between the two of them, sitting in the pair of chairs Gleb had drawn round the fire he had lit to chase the blue from Anya’s lips and the white from her fingers. Though the bottle was passed, Gleb made sure to drink only enough to slightly dull the pain in his chest and not enough that he couldn’t look after the girl curled into the chair next to him. He watched her closely as her smile widened and her speech slurred. He noticed when her hands stopped shaking and when her bubbly, drunken laugh pushed away the darkness lingering in her eyes. He noticed when she stopped shying away from his touch and he noticed when she started seeking it. 

Anya was well on her way to adding tonight to the list of nights she couldn’t remember. That list was already too long, but still Gleb passed the bottle back to her, wanting to comfort her, wanting to let her know she wasn’t alone, and wanting, despite her lost past, family, and name, to take the memories of tonight’s events away from her as well.

The alcohol, at least, had put Anya at ease. She had shed his coat as the fire and the alcohol warmed her. It seemed to have loosened her tongue as well and she prattled on about this and that, her flatmates and her street sweeping, her trip across Russia and the dog she’d met in the park last week. Gleb half listened, doing his best to enjoy the fact that Anya was in his flat, late as it was, and ignore the reason why she was there. If he pretended, allowed himself to be swept up in her slurred words and the warmth of the vodka, Gleb could almost block out the sharp, cold pain in his chest. 

“... And when she did finally let us in there were _two men_ in there with her!” Anya continued, confirming Gleb’s suspicions about the woman in Anya’s flat he had met earlier that night. She quieted for a moment, her thoughts growing distant as her eyes slipped in and out of focus.

“Hey,” Gleb said, pulling her attention back to him and away from whatever precipice they had been teetering on. Anya blinked, then flashed him a smile. She pushed herself out of her chair, then wobbled slightly, grasping its back for balance. “Where are you going?” Gleb asked, concerned that in her condition she wouldn’t make it much further than the floor.

“I wanna dance.” She grabbed Gleb’s hand, attempting to pull him with her. 

Gleb raised an eyebrow. “I think you’ll fall over if you try. Do you even know how?”

Anya nodded, still tugging on his hand. “Mama made sure all of us were given lessons.”

He was half way out of the chair, unable to resist Anya’s pouting lips and sparkling eyes before Gleb realized what she’d said. “What?”

“We had to dance at balls, you know,” Anya continued as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if she hadn’t just told him, with utter certainty, about a past she couldn’t remember, a past that apparently contained balls and dancing lessons. Anya dragged him away from the stove, seemingly oblivious to the magnitude of what she had just said. Her free hand found his shoulder and she took a few side steps before her feet got tangled under her. Luckily Gleb’s arm had already snaked around her waist and he set her gently on her feet again.

Giggling at her clumsiness, Anya tried again. “What did you do when you weren’t dancing?” Gleb asked tentatively, afraid that if he pushed too far she would lose what she had apparently remembered. 

Not looking at him, concentrating instead on her feet, Anya answered matter-of-factly. “We played with our elephant.”

An odd sense of ease and disappointment mixed in Gleb in equal measure. She didn’t remember anything, it was only the vodka talking. All at once Anya tipped forward into him and they both tumbled back, Gleb just unsteady enough to collapse back into his chair when the back of his knees hit the seat. Anya laughed again, still holding his hand in hers. 

Looking down at him, Anya reached out and brushed a hand through Gleb’s hair. Gleb almost imagined he saw a wistful look enter her eyes for a moment, before it was chased away again by drunken excitement. 

“I have a secret to tell you.” 

Gleb hardly had time to mutter an “um, alright,” before Anya was hiking up her skirts and climbing into his lap. Eyes wide, Gleb froze, holding absolutely still in the fear that one wrong move would send Anya’s memory back to placed neither of them want it to go. Anya didn’t seem worried about the connection, though, let alone the impropriety. She simply leaned forward, her hands on his shoulders, to whisper in his ear.

When she did speak her voice was decidedly above a whisper. “I know who I am,” she told him.

Gleb glanced at her, noting the smile on her lips as well as how dangerously close those lips were to his. Trying not to let himself become distracted by her mouth, or the feeling of her thighs gripping his legs, Gleb asked the obvious question. “Who are you?”

“The Princess Anastasia.” Her voice was so plain, so certain, that Gleb knew she believed it. Their eyes locked and Anya smiled again. Lifting one hand as Gleb sat, wide eyed with sock, Anya traced a finger along Gleb’s cheekbone. “You have beautiful eyes,” she murmured dazedly before tipping dangerously to her left.

The feeling of Anya slipping off his lap seemed to snap Gleb back to reality and he caught her before she was able to fall. Righting her, keeping his hands steadying on her waist, Gleb asked hoarsely, “Why do you think that you’re… _her_?” 

Frowning, Anya pursed her lips as her brow furrowed in thought. Her eyes were glassy and after a moment she tipped forward, her forehead coming to rest on Gleb’s shoulder.

“I don’t remember,” she muttered, her voice muffled.

Absently, Gleb tangled a hand into her hair soothingly. It’s just the alcohol, he told himself, relieved. Anya wouldn’t be crazy enough to believe this sober. She knew how dangerous thoughts like that could be. Gleb had all but convinced himself, his fingers still carding distractedly through Anya’s hair, when he suddenly stopped. His fingers were sticky. Freeing them from Anya’s curls he could see they were tipped with red.

“Anya, you’re bleeding.”

All this information elected from Anya was a noncommittal groan. 

Doing his best to peer over Anya’s shoulder, Gleb parted her hair. He could glimpse the cut, her hair matted with blood, but in the dim light he couldn’t make out much more. 

“Gleb?”

Her voice was small and a shift in her tone pulled Gleb’s attention away from her wound. 

“Hmm?”

“Those men…” There was a hitch in her voice and she trailed off, but Gleb didn’t need her to say more. Rubbing her back comfortingly with one hand, Gleb felt Anya ball a fist into the fabric of his shirt.

“Shh,” he murmured to her, “you’re safe. They can’t hurt you anymore, Anya. You’ll never have to see them again.” He had made sure of that.

He could feel her shuddering inhale against his chest as she sucked in air. “They weren’t the first, Gleb,” she whispered. “There were others.” She gasped in another breath. “It was bad, Gleb. And those are just the ones I can remember.” Her voice broke in a sob.

Hushing her, Gleb gripped her tighter. He could feel the panic beginning to roll off her in waves and he rocked her gently, wishing he could help, wishing he could do more. “You’re safe now. I’m here, you’re safe.” 

She didn’t cry, just pressed herself to him, seeking to make her already small frame even smaller in his arms. He held her for awhile until the muscles in her shoulders relaxed and her grip on his shirt loosened. 

Finally, he broke the quiet. “Anya?” He was met with more silence, but he knew she was listening. “Anya, I’ve got to look at your head. I have to be sure you don’t need stitches.” She said nothing, but shifted against him, her arms circling his neck tightly. “Hey, come on. I need you to look at me. Lift your head.”

Instead, Anya shook her head, then groaned and clung to him. Gleb could only imagine how badly her world was spinning. “‘S too heavy,” she muttered.

“Anya, stay with me. Just look at me, alright?” After another moment's hesitation, Anya did as Gleb asked. Keeping her steady with one hand, Gleb tipped her chin up, turning her head slightly this way and that as he did his best to examine her eyes. He had learned basic first aid in the Red Army, and although the light was dim in their corner of the room, Gleb could see Anya’s eyes were wide and dilated. Of course, whether that was due to a concussion or the vodka Gleb couldn’t be sure. When Gleb released her, Anya’s head fell back down to rest on his shoulder. 

Sighing, Gleb slipped an arm under her, then lifted her easily with him as he stood. No Rubles and tight rations kept Anya light, and while Anya wrapped her legs around his waist and clung to his neck a bit tighter, she made no other movement, her face still pressed into the side of his neck. Continuing to support her with one arm Gleb grabbed the mostly empty vodka bottle and headed to the kitchen. Leaving the bottle on the table he crossed to one of the overhead cabinets and grabbed the first aid kit he kept tucked away, Anya still in his arms. Returning to the table, Gleb set the small first aid box next to the vodka, then placed Anya next to them both, her legs straddling the corner of the table. Although sitting, Anya’s still clung to him. Gently, Gleb unwound her arms and pulled away from her. Her face was blank, and once again Gleb had to fight down nausea and furry in equal measure at the sight of her bruises. 

Stepping to her side, the bulb above the table allowing for more light, Gleb set about examining Anya’s head. The cut wasn’t deep and the blood had mostly dried. Wetting a cloth with vodka, Gleb dapped at the wound, cleaning it as best he could. Despite the stinging he was sure he was causing, Anya didn’t flinch. He supposed the alcohol had numbed her enough that she couldn’t feel the pain. 

Once most of the blood had been washed away, Gleb turned to Anya’s poorly bandaged hand. He undid her hasty wrapping and examined her knuckles. They were bruised and cut, but nothing that wouldn’t heal. A moment of satisfaction flashed through him at the memory of the beating Anya had given her two attackers. She was too tired or too drunk to fight now, though, and as he put away his few supplies Anya simply sat, slumped, where he had placed her. 

When he’d finished Gleb came to stand in front of her once again. “Anya?” When her eyes found his they were bleary. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“‘Sfaraway,” the mumbled, almost incoherently.

“What?” Gleb asked, perplexed.

“My bed’s far away,” she slurred, seemingly annoyed she hadn’t understood him the first time.

Gleb chuckled deep in his chest. He couldn’t help but find Anya’s drunken obstinate endearing. “But my bed isn’t,” he clarified. “You don’t think I’d let you out like this, do you?” Anya considered, then, apparently mollified, she allowed Gleb to help her off the table and place her on her feet, but she stumbled and her knees buckled when she tried to take a step. Catching her before she could fall, Gleb slipped an arm around her waist, his other grasping her free hand and taking her weight. 

Half guiding, half supporting her, Gleb led Anya to the stairs. When they reached the bottom Anya faltered, so, carefully, afraid her mind might remember what they had spent all night working to forget, Gleb slung one of Anya’s tiered arms over his shoulders. 

They climbed them slowly, Anya’s feet occasionally tangling beneath her, then turned to their left at the top and proceeded into Gleb’s bedroom. The room was hardly big enough for the bed, side table, and chair that occupied it. The chest at the foot of the bed held Gleb’s cloths, but beyond these essentials the room was bare. Removing Anya’s arm from his shoulders, but keeping one arm firmly around her waist, her other hand grasping his, Gleb realized he had never paid his furnishings much mind before but now, with Anya’s weight on his arm and her body leaning back into his chest, Gleb found himself oddly self-conscious. He pushed away the feeling quickly, though, shifting his grip to support Anya by the forearm as he steered her to the bed.

Setting her on the edge of the bed, Gleb made sure Anya wouldn’t tip over before letting her go. When he stepped away Anya’s worried eyes found his. “Where are you going?”

“I’m just going to get you a glass of water.” Gleb comforted, then added, “You’re going to need it in the morning.”

The fear, however, did not leave Anya’s eyes. “Will you come back?”

Gleb laughed low. “Yes, I’ll come back.” 

When Gleb did come back, glass in hand, Anya was slumped over on the bed. She had managed to unlace and kick off her boots and unbuckle the belt from around her waist. After placing the cup on the bedside table, Gleb turned down the sheets. 

“You came back,” Anya murmured, already half asleep.

Gleb was both disappointed and glad Anya couldn’t see the fond smile that played across his face. “Yeah.”

Sifting her easily, Gleb slipped an arm under Anya’s knees, the other supporting her back. He lifted her, cradling her to his chest as he carried her around to the side of the bed, placing her back down and tucking the covers securely over her. But, as he moved to leave, Anya’s hand found his. 

“Don’t go.”

Warmth washed through Gleb. He wanted to stay; of course he did. He wanted to wrap Anya in his arms and breath in her sent and chase away every bad though, every nightmare, that might come her way. But Anya was drunk and had already had too much hurt in her young life. The idea that she could wake up in the morning with the thought that Gleb was no better than the men who had painted her face and her heart black and blue sickened him. The memory of how she had flinched away from his touch was burned into Gleb’s mind and he would be damned if he did anything to make this girl afraid of him.

So, however unwillingly, Gleb unwound Anya’s hand from his, placing it affectionately back on the covers. “You’re drunk, Anya. You’ll feel better in the morning.” 

He turned away, intending to make his way downstairs to find a comfortable section of floor on which to sleep - as a member of the Red Army this certainly wouldn't be his first time - but Anya’s voice stopped him once more. 

“Gleb.” When he turned back she had propped herself up on an elbow and was looking him full in the face. Her eyes had cleared a bit and in them Gleb was surprised to find understanding. “I know. I’m scared, too. But I’m more afraid of being alone.” Her voice faltered, but she pushed on. “Please, Gleb. Please don’t leave me alone.”

Her words brought a new realization to Gelb - that maybe this frightened girl, who had just had the strength all but beaten out of her, was trying to find and claw back the power someone weaker would have lost. She wasn’t willing to give into her fear, not after losing her memory, not after traipsing across Russia with nothing but the cloths on her back, and not after tonight. And, for some reason, she had decided that the person she could trust was Gleb. 

Exhaling, Gleb nodded, slipping out of his boots, belt, coat, and suspenders before he slid into bed next to Anya. She blinked at him blearily, facing him as they lay together, close enough to touch but not quite touching.

“Good night, Gleb,” Anya muttered, eyes closing even as she said it.

“Good night, Anya,” Gleb returned.

He watched over her as she slipped into sleep and for as long after that as his tired eyes would allow. When he was sure she was fast asleep Gleb tucked a stray strand of hair behind Anya’s ear, allowing his fingers to lightly trace the bruising along her cheek, before closing his eyes.

*******

Anya woke to a warmth she was unaccustomed to feeling. The warmth was threefold, she realized as she processed slowly. There was the warmth of the sun on her body. She had clearly slept much longer than she usually did. There was the warmth of a blanket thick enough to keep out the Russian cold. The blankets on her own cot were worn, patched, and threadbare. And, perhaps most surprisingly, there was the warmth of another body pressed to hers. 

The next sensation she noticed was pain. Her temples felt as though someone was drilling into them with a chisel and her left cheek throbbed. She felt a swell of panic as her memories from the day before began coming back to her - fingers under her clothing, fists hitting her face - but when she cracked her eyes open it wasn’t terror or pain - besides the stabbing behind her eyes from the light in the room - that waited for her.

She must have curled into Gleb’s arms as she’d slept, she realized. His shirt was soft under her fingers and against her cheek and his comforting scent surrounded her. His arms had encircled her, pulling her to his chest as if, even in sleep, he was determined to protect her. Her head was tucked under his chin, and she realized the steady thumping she was gradually becoming aware of must be his heartbeat. The gentle rise and fall of his breath told her he was still asleep.

Another memory surfaced from the night before and Anya bit her lip to stifle her groan. Had she really been drunk enough to believe she could be the dead Princess Anastasia? The thought was ludicrous. And yet, she realized slowly, when she remembered what she had said and how she had felt, she knew she had been so sure. She couldn’t shake the idea that somehow her drunken mind had processed something her sober mind couldn’t. 

Anya’s head pounded with the leftover effects of the alcohol. Her left cheek felt swollen and hot, and the lasting repercussions of her attack went much deeper than the bruises. Her mind spun with a mix of memories she wanted to forget and the constant, gaping holes left by the memories she had already lost. But, through the haze left by the vodka, Anya could remember things she never wanted to forget - Gleb’s gentle touch, the way he’d carried her and cared for her, the way his eyes shone with a mixture of concern and some other emotion she couldn’t quite put a name to. Or perhaps wasn’t quite ready to put a name to. 

In his sleep, Gleb’s arms tightened a fraction around her. Putting thoughts of princesses and pain out of her mind, Anya snuggled closer, letting her eyes drift shut once again. There was plenty to think about, plenty to process and examine, and plenty of healing to do, but for now someone held her, safe and warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read! I hope you enjoyed it and I would love to know what you thought!
> 
> Additionally, you can find me on Tumblr at [wearesuchstuff1](http://wearesuchstuff1.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Since this story does touch on some difficult subjects, please know that I am always happy to talk if you feel the need to reach out to someone, but I also encourage you to seek out professional help if you feel you could benefit by it.
> 
> Unfortunately, I do not own Anastasia.


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